Litwak's Nephew
by Brolay
Summary: When the power goes out one evening at the arcade, Litwak discovers a destroyed game cabinet and an intruder in the form of a retro arcade character. No definite pairings. Major OC later on.
1. Electricity

**Electricity**

Stan Litwak hated nights like this. He couldn't open the windows to hear the crickets because the frost had chased them off and his old radio was only receiving static. All he heard was the clink clink of change being sorted or the skritch-scratching of his pen on his old, leather-bound ledger.

_TCH_

After hours was his least favorite part of the day. Even on slow days, the arcade was full of life on its own with each machine breathing their own tinny sounds and pixelated characters bouncing within their cabinets. But in here, when the children left with their screaming and laughter, he felt alone.

_TCH KRIK_

He dropped his pen on the desk and turned towards the door. "What the hay?" Litwak muttered. He leaned against the desk and pushed himself out of the chair.

_TCH KRIK...CRACK_

He stood still, hunched over the desk, listening.

The unmistakable sound of shattered glass reached his ears just as the lights flickered out. He bolted for the door and grabbed the old wooden bat he hoped he never had to use.

The door swung open and he held the bat in front of him like a club, leaning towards the wall to flip the light switch despite the overhead lights being dead. Even in the darkness, he could see the double front doors still locked from two hours ago with no signs of any disturbances. He rested the bat against his shoulder and peered around in the dark. The only other window was in his office and he knew the sound didn't come from there.

The emergency generator kept the game screens glowing through the outage. The familiar and comforting screens gave Litwak just enough visibility to weave his way through the maze of games with his junior slugger bat gripped in his hands. One familiar screen was dark: Fix-it Felix, Jr. That game, like so few that still stood in his arcade, was an old friend of his and one of the games Litwak had bought with his own money when the arcade first opened thirty years prior. His stomach churned at the sight of the black screen. It looked as though old Felix and the gang couldn't handle whatever caused the power outage. He made a mental note to call the repairman as soon as he found out what else had assumedly broken.

Fear of whatever caused the shatter and outage was shoved to the back of his mind as soon as he stepped closer. His mouth dropped. He thought the game was dark because of the electrical shortage, but now it looked as though the busted screen had exploded right out of the cabinet. Shards of twinkling glass littered the controls and the floor.

"What?" he asked aloud, then noticed his voice sounded way too loud. His skin chilled. Every machine was quiet, though the screens still bathed the dark game room in harsh light. It was as if they were all holding their breath…

Out of the corner he saw a pulse of red that was too bright to belong to any of the game screens. He raised the bat again and tip toed towards the direction of the foreign light. His shoes seemed to squeal with a deafening pitch with every step he took, but he continued on. He rounded the corner and

It was gone.

To his left he spotted the red light moving to the other row of consoles. Heart pounding, he rounded the other way and raised his bat over his head with a mighty yell.

Whatever gave off the light crashed into him and the force stole his breath away. Litwak toppled into the basketball free-throw and he winced at an audible crack the frame produced from the adult's weight.

The person, or whatever it was, wasn't so lucky. It crashed to the floor with a definite "oof". And then it changed. What was a hazy glow of stray pixels solidified into the form of a young man in red and white coveralls and a matching racing helmet.

The stranger sat in a daze as if he just woke up, and then his freakish yellow eyes met Litwak's for only a split second and then roamed the arcade from his spot on the tiled floor before settling with staring at his hands. He stretched his five fingers and examined every inch of his pale skin as if it was the first time he ever saw them. Then his attention snapped back to Litwak and his eyes became wide with feral rage. He sprung to his feet, though he swayed a little from the quick movement. "You." He pointed at the older man. "I know who you are." Even as the stranger tried to seem threatening, his hateful eyes flickered with uncertain fear as he glanced around the arcade once more. "You're Litwak!"

Litwak held the bat again in preparation to swing. His eyes hardened as he looked down at the… well, he looked like a man, but after the light show, Litwak wasn't sure what to call him. "Who are you?"

The man shook with a harsh and halfhearted laugh, but his eyes were still wide like a trapped animal. Litwak took a step back.

"W-Why don't you stop laughing and give me one good reason I shouldn't call the police?" His heart hammered away.

The stranger bared his yellow, stained teeth in a humorless smile. "You really don't recognize me, Litwak?" He jabbed a prideful thumb at himself. "I'm Turbo! I'm the greatest racer in this-"

_THUNK_- The bat cracked on top of Turbo's helmet and he fell back to the floor with a yelp. The racer tried to stand, but wobbled and toppled with each effort, clutching his helmet in a vain attempt to keep the world from swimming in front of his eyes.

"Get out!" Litwak yelled.

Turbo's face twisted in pain and disgust as he glared at the arcade owner. He grabbed hold of the front of an old skee ball game and tried and failed to hoist himself off the ground. "You really don't know who I am," Turbo mumbled. He let out a groan and snapped his eyes shut. "Good grief, was that thing made of cement?!"

"I said get out!" He jabbed the head of the bat forward like a spear and the racer skirted back, one hand still gripping his throbbing head.

"Easy with that!"

There was a silent standoff between the two. Turbo made no move to stand for fear of the bat looming close to his skull and chose instead to glare at the old man, who glared back with only half the ferocity as the deranged racer. Finally, Litwak sighed and took another step back, leaning the bat against his shoulder. "I'm not going to press any charges if you leave now," he said, "But, please: Get out." His eyes narrowed at the man who still had not budged from the floor. "Now."

Turbo waited another moment, though the bat didn't move from the old man's shoulder. He scoffed and stood, straightening his helmet and sending one last glowering stare at the old man to mask how disoriented he was. "If you had any idea who I was you wouldn't dare to treat me like this," he slurred.

Litwak walked to the door and pulled a key from his belt and tried to hide his shaking hands from the intruder. He took a step back once more as the man pushed the door with a jingle and walked into the brisk night with his head held high (and his knees trembling). Oh, he knew exactly what this kid was: some coo-coo dressed as the main character from that old Turbo Time game. Litwak had no idea what the light show was about. Maybe the kid had some of those fancy LED lights on him. As for the eyes? Theater contacts. Or alcoholism. At the very least, Litwak had to admit the kid was thorough with his little show.

He locked the door and gave it a firm push, just to make sure. The intruder had his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he stormed off aimlessly, tittering slightly and tripping over his shoes more than once. Jeeze, it was just a baseball bat. The kid was even wearing a helmet. Litwak leaned against the door so close his breath fogged up the glass. He fumbled with the keys and they slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor in the unnaturally silent arcade. Litwak knelt down and ignored the pop in his left knee when he stood again and clipped the key ring back onto his belt. He glanced back at the man in his parking lot.

He was gone.

Behind him static rumbled like a TV on an empty station. Litwak spun around in time to see the same man in his white coveralls staring wide eyed at the door as the remaining stray red pixels readjusted themselves onto his form. The older man pressed himself against the wall in an unconscious reaction, his empty hand clutching his chest. Turbo shivered as another crackle of red pixels overtook his body. His deathly pale complexion seemed to have grown whiter and he swayed once again, both hands now gripping his abused head.

Was this kid a ghost or something? Litwak held the bat forward like a spear, though his defensive stance faltered when Turbo toppled backwards and crashed onto the tiled floor with a THUD.

"Goodness, kid." Litwak stepped forward, the bat dragging at his side. "Do you have a concussion?"

"Don't you dare call me kid, you old man. I am Turbo!" the man screeched and his voice distorted into 8-bit and static. He raised his head as much as he dared (a strained effort) and glared as menacingly as his muddled, fading eyes would allow him. "I was the most popular game until '87 when _you_,"- he pointed to Litwak- "decided I just wasn't good enough anymore. I needed to be _replaced_. There was something wrong with me-

"Stop." Litwak pushed a hand through his hair and leaned against the wall once more. "Just stop right there." Stan Litwak was known for being a child at heart. He willingly humored his younger customers with stories of aliens and magic and the unknown, understanding how feeding the imagination bred creativity. He played along when children ran up to him with eyes as wide as saucers and chatted away about how their favorite characters had talked to them and helped them win (in which Litwak would laugh and say "no, you helped them win!").

"Are you afraid of the truth, old man? You better get used to it." Turbo managed to push himself into an upright position. His glowing eyes were still heavy and in danger of closing, but the sincerity of his sharp words still cut deep.

Litwak never verbalized it, but he did believe there was something special about his arcade. He took care of his machines and only removed one of them if he knew for sure it was beyond working standards. A friend of his even took on most of the half "living" machines for refurbishing. Litwak respected the arcade games like they were his employees, but never thought much else of them. For thirty years he ignored the soft, tinny voices that didn't fit any of the game's scripts and how he more than once caught a character in a game they didn't belong to. "I'm more worried about the little light show you put on, you little freak."

Turbo shrugged, the light in his eyes dimming as he struggled to keep awake. "All I asked for was to destroy my enemies," he slurred, "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for you."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Turbo rubbed his face. "S'not important right now," he said, "Did you know I was a king?" And with that he collapsed again onto the floor. A raspy giggle escaped his throat. "And now I am nothing more than a slave to the crippled old man who aligned my life onto this track to hell. Hoo hoo!"

"You're talking nonsense." Litwak inched his way towards the fallen character and knelt beside him, placing his trusty wooden bat within reaching distance. "You might want to remove that helmet, kiddo. I need to check out that place where I whacked you."

Turbo made no motions or effort to move. He stared at the ceiling, his eyelids dropping. A weak smile graced his lips. "I'd rather be dead."

The helmet slid off revealing a mop of tangled, black hair. With much hesitation (he wasn't surprised to find the racer's hair an oily mess), Litwak patted along the character's head until he reached the top of his skull and Turbo hissed in pain. "Oh, gosh," muttered Litwak, "Stay awake, ok? I'm… I'm calling 911. Can you hear me?"

"I'm fine, you crippled fool. Just let me rest."

Litwak furrowed his brow. "Stop calling me crippled. I'm not even that old. Or crippled."

Turbo's shoulders shook with muffled laughter. With some difficulty, he raised his arm and poked Litwak in the chest, right over his heart. "You think I can't feel that artificial electricity? It's been humming in my chest since this form created itself."

A surge of soft, buzzing electricity trickled from the spot Turbo touched, right atop Litwak's pacemaker. Litwak reeled back and slapped away the intruder's hand. "Wait just a minute-"

"How do you think I'm outside, Litwak?" Turbo spat the man's name like an insult. "It's just a guess, you know. But I'm all tied up, and I don't mean to the building." He gave a dramatic sigh. "Now leave me. I'm too weak to stand and too distraught to think anymore."

"You… you can't be serious." Litwak was dizzy and his heart hammered in his chest and he gripped onto his shirt as if the cotton between his fingers would calm him. "This doesn't make a lick of sense! Hey!" He grabbed the front of Turbo's track suit and shook his sleeping form.

Turbo's eyes fluttered open and in the darkness his eyes gave off a dim glow. He gave a halfhearted grin and a feeble thumbs-up and said, "Not a lollipop's lick of sense," before succumbing once again to the fatigue of his rattled brain.

Litwak dropped Turbo back onto the floor. The tinny, chipper sounds of the arcade roared in his ears, though most of the cabinets were still much quieter than what he remembered. He side glanced at the form of the sleeping former racer and then let his eyes wander around his arcade in a silent plead. "What am I going to do?" he asked aloud.

But no one answered him. And perhaps it was best that way. Litwak didn't think he could handle any more surprises that night. He stood, albeit slowly, and paused for a moment to listen to the racer's breathing, which was heavy and continuous. Nothing out of the ordinary. Litwak made his way to Fix-it Felix, Jr. and brushed the larger shards of glass off of the cabinet. He gave a labored sigh and stared into the black depths of the empty machine. "First thing tomorrow," he said, though he didn't know quite who he was addressing, "The repairman will install a new pane of glass and things will be fit as a fiddle."

He frowned and glanced over his shoulder once again at Turbo. The retro racer grunted and twitched, but was still very much asleep and too far gone to be a threat. In such a state, with his inhuman eyes closed and his trademark helmet removed, he looked like any other young adult. Litwak knelt once again beside the boy and hoisted the sleeping character by his underarms and began dragging him to the door, all the while trying to ignore the slow ache in his back. "What have I gotten myself into?" he muttered.

AN: Thank you, Rory the Best Beta Reader Ever, for putting up with my incessant nagging and disregard for proper semicolon use. I'm sorry Turbo wasn't smacked with the bat as much as you wanted him to be. Maybe next chapter.


	2. Late Nights and Early Mornings

**Late Nights and Early Mornings**

"Is that everyone?"

Felix heard the question, but was too lost in his own thoughts to answer. He had watched every last Nicelander evacuate, and some he and Tammy had personally escorted from the disaster zone. Even after assuring everyone's safety, the realization that his game, _their _game, was broken still had him stunned to silence. Sure, the emergency power had kicked in and no one died, but the screen was blown from the cabinet. That was something even his trusty hammer couldn't fix.

"Yeah, that's everyone," said Ralph. Felix smiled weakly at his friend, who matched it with just as weary of an expression.

The surge protector nodded and scribbled something onto his notepad. His usual apathetic demeanor was replaced with uncharacteristic anxiety. The blue protector appeared beside Felix moments later, gliding past Ralph without a glance of recognition. "How many know about the incident?" he asked.

"Only Ralph, Tammy, and I, sir," said Felix. He wrung his hat like a dish rag between his hands. "And you, of course."

"What about von Schweets from Sugar Rush? She's usually in your little posse."

Ralph lumbered over to the two men and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Vanellope was there, but we made her evacuate with everyone else. I just told her the screen cracked from the outside just like we told all the Nicelanders." He narrowed his eyes at the surge protector. "And we're going to keep it that way, Bertram."

The surge protector's mouth twitched ever so slightly in annoyance. "I didn't give you authorization to use my first name, Mr. Wreck-it."

"Ralph is right, though," said Felix. He pulled his wrinkled cap over his head and balled his gloved hands into fists with newfound vigor. "After all Miss Vanellope has been through, there's no way she needs to find out about, erm…" He glanced around, though no unwanted ears were listening. "you-know-who still being around. A child her age has enough things to worry about without the horrors she's been though."

"Evening, boys." Tammy strode to the odd group of men, her hips swaying with an intense gait and an equally intense gaze to match. The corners of her lips raised just a fraction and her eyes softened when they met Felix's. "And husband," she added.

The repairman gave a glowing smile, his first genuine smile in hours. He tipped his hat and said, "My lady." His smile faltered moments later. He knew she had bad news.

What little smile Tammy gave was dashed and her eyebrows were knitted together in deep thought. "After some snooping, I found out that one of my men got drunk off his rockets last week and misplaced his hover board as well as a heavy artillery weapon. The mad dog must have been holding onto them until that window of opportunity tonight when all of us were together." She swept her bangs behind her ear. "None of this would have happened if I had done a more thorough perimeter check."

Felix squeezed her hand and rested his head against her arm. "You're being too hard on yourself, Tam."

"He's right." The surge protector tapped his pencil against the edge of his notepad, hands fidgeting the entire time. "If anyone is to blame, it's me."

"Don't say that, sir!" Felix said.

"Don't bother, Mr. Fix it, Jr." he said, "It's my responsibility to patrol Game Central and I've let that slippery sun of a gun slide past me who knows how many times."

"Well, technically it's the first surge protector's fault." Ralph shrugged and scratched his ear. "That guy was kind of the one who didn't catch Turbo after the Road Blasters incident."

"Ralph," Felix snapped.

"What? It's not like if I say his names three times he'll appear in the mirror. We've been using his name for years."

"Shut your pie hole, Wreck it," said Tammy, "This isn't some sort of tight-lipped taboo we're trying to sweep under the rug. In case you haven't noticed, the entire arcade is on edge about what the sam hell happened tonight. It's bad enough that a few civilians actually saw him outside." She closed her eyes and sighed, her hands balled into fists. Felix stepped back, just in case his wife decided to take a swing at Ralph as he knew she was itching to. When she opened her eyes again, her composure had returned and her face was stoic and stony. "These civilians are going to find out eventually that the mad dog is loose on the other side and there's not a darn thing anyone can do about it."

Ralph's thick eyebrows furrowed. "What are you saying, Serge?"

"What I'm saying is this is completely outside of my expertise, Wreck it." Her voice was steady and calm, though the frustration was written across her face. "We've got a dangerous war criminal in the one place where we can't reach him and he can do as much permanent damage to us as he pleases. Game Central and all its ports will fall into chaos once enough people figure this out."

Silence. No one dared argue with the sergeant, especially when they knew she was right. Without a word, the surge protector turned on his heel and walked away from the group and out of the tunnel leading into Fix it Felix, Jr. as quickly as he could, muttering something about having to check on something.

Felix tapped his gloved fingers against the head of his hammer, "I have an idea," he said, "But none of you are going to like it."

* * *

There was a window on the living room ceiling.

In all the mess that Turbo's mind wandered into that morning, his thoughts so often returned to question of why someone would choose to have a hole in their roof protected by a thin sheet of glass. And on that thin sheet of glass, half-frozen beads of sleet crumbled and slid off.

He didn't want to wake up. He would have gladly chosen to stay asleep and never wake up, or to just shut his eyes and when he opened them again time would have turned backwards just for him.

His pity party was cut short when Litwak stumbled out of his room and turned on all the lights to find his way to the kitchen that was six steps away from his bedroom. And, of course, the couch Turbo slept on was caught in the crossfire of the old man's pathetic attempt to meander his way towards the promise of coffee. At one point he rammed himself into the couch, in which Turbo wished him a good morning in the most colorful language he could think of. The old man laughed and dismissively apologized, though he made no attempt to lower his voice.

And then he got to the kitchen. The man hummed and whistled as he clattered around the pots and pans in search of who knows what. Cabinet doors squealed when opened and slammed when closed. Coffee hissed and gurgled. Floors squeaked. Everything was loud.

A platter of scrambled eggs still steaming from the stove was tossed onto the low table next to Turbo's signature helmet. The man who had climbed to the top of Turbo's most wanted dead list within an hour stood with his hands on his hips beside the couch.

"Good morning," said Litwak.

Turbo stared at the elder man, narrowed his eyes, and then threw the blanket back over his head.

Litwak sighed, though through his smile the sound came out as a hiss of a laugh. "At least eat your breakfast." His footsteps were muffled on the old rug but when Turbo heard the bedroom door close again, he knew it was safe to pull the blanket away from his face. The eggs were growing colder and though Turbo would gladly never accept anything that old fool offered him, his stomach was much more open to the act of generosity. He snatched up the silver fork beside his plate and shoveled the food into his mouth.

His head felt like a jackhammer and a hangover cornered him in an alleyway. Even with the old man back in his room and making considerably less noise than before (and he was still convinced most of it was on purpose), a dull ache spread from the base of his neck up to the top of his head. Last night was a mash up of what he knew to be real memories and what he was now sure were false ones created by his horrifically lucid dreams to fill in the gaps. Regardless, the only important thing he needed to remember now was that he was stuck with Litwak. The small, electrical jumps in his chest were enough of a reminder. If only he knew a way to undo this "binding". The only thing that gave him hope was the knowledge that it that little electric heart generator (or whatever it was) in Litwak's chest that was the issue and not the man himself.

The door opened again and Litwak arrived once again beside the couch, though this time instead of a food offering in his hands, he had a bundle of clothing. He tossed them to Turbo's feet. "They won't fit," said Litwak, "But it's the closest I have. We'll get you something proper after work."

"After work? What is that supposed to mean?" Turbo picked up the clothing as if they were dirty rags. It was a tee shirt that had been run through the wash enough times for the cotton to be see through and a pair of khaki shorts made to reach above the knees but on him would slide down to his shins.

"It's Saturday. The arcade opens at nine and right now…" He raised his arm and glanced at the watch around his wrist. "It is a few minutes after eight. Get dressed."

"I'm not going to that place," said Turbo. He pushed away the empty platter of eggs and crossed his arms, his yellow eyes set in finality.

Any semblance of patience Litwak had mustered dissipated and underneath his thick glasses, his eyes darkened. "Look here, kiddo," he said, "This morning I couldn't even walk to my mailbox without feeling like I got punched in the chest, and I am trying my best to stay calm and optimistic." He gave a gruff sigh and pushed back his hair." Last night you made it perfectly clear that none of this… mess was intentional but don't you dare act like it isn't your fault. I am not the one who broke the laws of all things natural by crawling out of a gosh darned game screen!" He snatched up the plate from the table. With stiff shoulders, he walked to the kitchen where the plate was dropped into the sink with a loud clatter and the faucet was running.

"You don't know anything," Turbo muttered. So the old man thought he was at his wit's ends? Did he have any idea who he was talking to? Did he have any idea just what Turbo had gone through?

"And another thing!" Litwak stormed towards the couch. "Litwak's Arcade and Family Fun Center has never been closed on a Saturday. Ever. And I don't plan on breaking that streak just because you decided to wake up with a bad attitude." He knelt down (his knee popped, though he tried to ignore it) and grabbed the handful of clothing that Turbo had pushed to the floor. "We are leaving in ten minutes," he said. The wad of clothing struck Turbo square in the face. "Get dressed, Mr. Sass."

Even with the heat blasting, Turbo's teeth were chattering and he had his arms wrapped around his chest. The arcade was only a few minutes away, but between waiting for the ice to defrost off the windshield and the obnoxiously slow driving Litwak did, it felt like an hour.

Turbo didn't remember getting in the car last night, but he did remember leaning his face against the window and the cold biting at his cheek. He remembered babbling nonsense, most of which was about Sugar Rush and all of which he was sure Litwak was ignoring (he was too busy on the phone asking about concussion treatment). If he had it his way, he would never step into that dinky arcade again. But of course nothing had been going his way ever since that halitosis-ridden warthog stumbled into his game and destroyed his life.

A grin spread across his face and he felt his heart flutter a little. In all the confusion last night, he forgot about the motley crew and the state he left them in. Perhaps fate had been kinder to him lately than he gave it credit.

Litwak pulled into a parking spot much further away from the door than Turbo would have asked for. Knees shaking from the impending cold, Turbo hopped out of the car and followed closely behind the man that held the keys.

In front of the double doors of the arcade was an old truck with a rattling engine that set Turbo's teeth on edge. A man with heavy eyes and a handlebar mustache sat in the car entertaining himself with his cellphone.

"Mike!" Litwak tapped on the door of the truck with an embarrassed grin. "How long have you been here?"

The engine died and Mike slid out of the truck, expression just as bored. Around his belt was an assortment of tools. "Maybe five minutes."

"Sorry for the wait, buddy," Litwak gave him a harsh pat on the shoulder. "Come on in. I appreciate you coming in on a Saturday."

"Hm." Mike shrugged and allowed the older man to usher him into the heated arcade, followed by Turbo. The two men exchanged glances once, though Mike stiffened at the site of the shorter man's eyes. Turbo grinned at the acknowledgement, showing off his equally yellow teeth. Mike side stepped away and followed close to Litwak like a dog with its tail between its legs.

"Here's old Felix," said Litwak. He patted the cabinet and a few stray shards of glass slid off the control panel.

Turbo watched the two of them, his eyes fluttering back and forth at the pointless banter (most all of it coming from Litwak while the maintenance man nodded and grunted). Litwak wanted to replace the screen as if there was no damage done to the internal mechanics of the game. The fluttering in Turbo's chest had long since fallen away and in its place was a heavy sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. His hands were balled at his sides and, before he knew it, he was shaking.

He watched with cold, silent rage as the new screen was fitted and the machine was turned on and began to breathe its tinny sounds just like the rest of the games. Though the music played, the screen stayed frozen in place and Turbo's breath hitched, a smile twitching at his lips.

And then there was Fix it and Wreck it in their respective roles, piddling around as if nothing had happened. Mike and Litwak had their backs turned, facing the game and discussing what needed to be replaced in the old relic. Before he knew it, Turbo had his hands in the air in a silent scream and his teeth grinding as he forced his jaw to stay clamped to keep back the string of colorful words he was ready to release upon the arcade and the heavens above. When that wasn't enough, he turned to the nearest machine and reeled his arm to swing.

Sugar Rush.

His fist was inches away from the screen. Any other game and he his hand would have been a mess of blood and glass. The rage didn't dissipate, but he felt as though someone pressed the pause button and he then felt nothing. The screen reeled through the list of characters, each one a face he recognized immediately. Nostalgia washed over him and finally the rage seemed to dissipate. Was this regret he was feeling? Compassion, maybe?

The screen reeled to Vanellope von Schweets and those foreign emotions flittered away. He sneered at the girl, so sure she could see him. Even with the natural ability to hide unscripted emotions while under the spotlight, Turbo could still see the girl fidget and her chocolate eyes widen at the sight of him.

He grinned and leaned closer to the screen, his voice no louder than a harsh whisper. "What is it, little glitch? Surely you didn't think you were rid of me just yet."

"What are you doing over there, kiddo?"

Turbo spun around to see Litwak and Mike the maintenance guy staring at him. Litwak raised his eyebrows, though Mike stared at Turbo as if the retro racer had two heads.

"Who did you say he was?" asked Mike.

"He's my, uh, nephew." Litwak glanced at Turbo with eyes that spelt his doom if he so much as opened his mouth to retaliate.

"Hm." Mike fidgeted with a lined sheet of paper in his hands and ran his fingers over the creases before handing it to Litwak. "Let's just round it to a hundred."

Litwak took the paper and shoved it into his pocket without glancing at it. "When do you need it by?"

But Mike was already walking towards the door, stifling a yawn. "I'll call you. We can make some sort of arrangement."

"Thanks, Mike."

"See you around, Mr. Litwak. And, uh…"

Turbo grimaced. After decades of his name being infamous, his anonymity in this place was already getting under his skin. "Turbo," he said.

Mike opened his mouth, but snapped it closed and settled with giving the racer another look of confusion and discomfort. The door opened with a jingle and a stiff breeze entered the arcade as the maintenance man left.

His truck started up and, although the sound was muffled by the glass double doors, Turbo could hear the incessant rattling from under its hood. "Loose heat shield," he muttered.

"Did you say something, kiddo?"

Turbo grounded his teeth, not so apt to hold his tongue now that the stranger was gone. "Stop with this kid nonsense," he snapped, "I am an adult you dense fool."

"Hey, I'll stop with the name calling when you stop."

"Oh, excuse me." Turbo rolled his eyes, glaring with his venom-filled yellow gaze. He gave a flourishing wave of his hand. "What would you prefer? Perhaps Uncle? Uncle, uh…"

"Stanley."

"Uncle Stanley!" he said. His face puckered at the words. "Ugh, it's like bitter chocolate on my tongue." He grinned at the old man and his souring expression. "Uncle Stanley, I'm hungry."

"You ate breakfast less than an hour ago."

"I want food."

Just as they did the night before, the two men faced off in staring down each other (though this time Turbo sported a grin in an effort to further grate at the old man's nerves). Litwak broke away first and dug through his pockets before producing a handful of quarters. "The vending machine is in the back by the restrooms," he said, "Grab something and then go straight to my office. I'm meeting with one other person before opening shop."

"Why can't I stay out here?"

"Because." He grabbed Turbo's hand and slapped the change into his palm. "I am positive she might recognize you."

* * *

Litwak had supervised as Turbo walked to the back and obediently purchased a bag of cheese puffs and retreated to the office without destroying anything. It had been only a few minutes, though Litwak couldn't shake the gut feeling that the character had managed to break something already.

He busied himself while waiting for his guest. He swept the floor and gave special attention to Fix it Felix, Jr. so as to pick up any stray shards of glass. It was five minutes to nine and though he was hopeful that she would arrive on time, he wasn't the least bit surprised by her tardiness.

"Er, excuse me."

The voice Litwak heard was not female, nor was it Turbo's (it was far too polite). But it did come from within the arcade and Litwak was positive he had not heard anyone enter.

Litwak spun around to see the newest game in his arcade: Hero's Duty. Its screen was alive just as the other games' were, but what it showed was not the usual action-packed preview of acid green bugs and space marines. Instead, square in the middle of the screen, standing somewhere in a much safer part of the gameplay, was Fix it Felix, Jr.

Felix gave a shy wave and an uncomfortable smile. "You must be Litwak the arcade owner," he said, "I'm sure you know who I am, though I can tell you're surprised to see me outside of my game."

"Sweet Jesus, you've got to be kidding me." Litwak stumbled backwards until he bumped into the Pac Man cabinet across from Hero's Duty, and then he clung on for dear life so as not to slide to the ground in defeat as he so desperately wanted to.

"No kidding around here, sir," said Felix, "though I'm sorry to give you such a fright. I'm not supposed to be doing this, but this is an emergency. It's kind of a taboo of Game Central. Oh, if the surge protector found out-"

"You're not pixels."

"No, sir, I am not." He smiled with pride. "Is Turbo nearby?"

"Oh, um, yeah." Litwak jabbed a finger in the direction of the office. "He's eating cheese puffs or something. I told him not to come out."

Felix made an affirmative sound, though his high-definition eyes grew distant. He snatched the hat off his head and grappled with the adjusting strap. "Sir, there are a few things you need to know about Turbo…"

A few things turned out to be an extensive criminal record. At one point, Litwak gave up on keeping his knees locked and just slid to the floor in exhaustion.

Felix told him about the eighties and about Road Blasters. He told him about Sugar Rush and Vanellope von Schweets and the cybugs from Hero's Duty. And, finally, he told Litwak about last night. He told him about how Felix witnessed the villain's attempt to kill off the entire Fix-it Felix, Jr. cast as well as Sergeant Calhoun and Vanellope by destroying the retro game's screen from the inside.

"I thought we were done for," said Felix, "After the first crack, Tammy and I ushered Vanellope and the Nicelanders out of there. They didn't see what was happening, but the rest of us did. Ralph was ready to climb up to Turbo and rip him apart before the screen finally shattered." Felix sighed, his cheeks red from speaking so quickly. "All that we ask is that you keep him away from us, sir. You're the only one who can stop him."

Before Litwak could answer, there was a knock at the front door. Felix jumped and looked in the direction where Litwak looked, though from his angle he couldn't see a thing. Litwak sprung to his feet and looked at Felix, then back at the door where his tardy friend stood waving with an apologetic smile.

By the time Litwak looked back at the screen, Felix had disappeared and the game showed nothing more than the metal and pipe hallway where he stood just seconds ago. A moment later and the preview video of the game reappeared and the scripted music began to play.

Without another thought, Litwak reached for the keys at his belt and walked to the double glass doors. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.

* * *

**AN: WOW HAHA LOOK I FINALLY UPDATED. Rory took the blame for this because holy wow I actually had the draft done for this over a week ago. In our defense, this is a longer chapter than the last one and I had to completely rewrite my original draft. And then I got all these fabulous reviews from these fabulous people and I just want everyone to know that I really appreciate all the feedback I've gotten I mean oh my gosh. You guys give me the honey glows something awful *V***

**I also noticed that the line breaks didn't work last chapter even though they did in the preview, so here's hoping for correct formatting. Cheers!**


End file.
